Endless Forms Most Beautiful
by ThereAreNoLines
Summary: The sun would rise in the morning, and water would evaporate from the gutters and fall as rain, and Spencer was kissing her. Like the most natural thing in the world.


There was a valley in the landscape of the bed where Spencer had lain the night before. Hanna's wandering hand exploring the cracks, the hills, the streams in the egyptian cotton forest, the sun casting shadows of every shape, each one dancing along the skin of her hand as she passed over them one by one. The surface was still warm from where her body had been, the scent of her hair still trapped in the pillow as Hanna pulled it over, burying her face in the fabric.

The memory came leaking back through the dazed cracks left in her head, like the sunlight filtered through the spaces left in curtains. There had been no awkward fumbling, no strange transition when they'd come through the door to the white, airy apartment that overlooked the bright skyline losing its lights in the river below. Spencer' hand worked the dimmer switch like a musician, and it was a whirlwind through glass of wine and soft couches and old, ironic records on an old, ironic turntable. They knew what they were there for, but it didn't factor into their bodies, into their word, it didn't stunt them, or make their palms sweat, or make them stutter from anticipation. A carefully practiced and rehearsed recital, though nothing about it was rehearsed at all, and it flowed with a natural spontaneity that Hanna had never experienced in all her relationships, her encounters. Each was taken in harsh, halting steps, but when Spencer's mouth was finally on hers, there was nothing harsh or halting about it. The sun would rise in the morning, and water would evaporate from the gutters and fall as rain, and Spencer was kissing her. Like the most natural thing in the world.

Hanna traced the hem of the pillowcase, over every black, artful stitch, losing count as she felt the warmth from Spencer's side of the bed spill away into nothingness, dropping off the cliff of the mattress like a waterfall. She trembled like the earth as she peered over at the covers pooling at the ground, wondering where Spencer had gone to, tiptoeing over the bubbling brook of silence to not disturb her. Her own feet were unsteady as she rose to them, pressing her toes into the lush carpet for a minute, stretching her arms above her head like in worship, letting the sun warm her bare body and clammy skin. The drawer pulled open without complaint and she sunk her hands into fabric, finally letting an oversized white shirt hang over her tired frame. She pulled the collar up to her face, the starched fabric rough against her bare lips, bearing the harsh scent of laundry detergent but the softer, spicy sent of Spencer that she now had memorized, woven into the fabric of her impression of her. Dark and spicy with lavender, but also something else, something she couldn't figure out. Hanna liked it that way, though, not knowing every single detail, letting her remain an enigma, at least in some respects. (Perhaps she was terrified that when they each fit all the pieces together, there would be nothing to hold either of them there, and they'd move on to the next project or puzzle and leave this one in a frame on the wall.)

The floor was cold as she made her way out of the bedroom, parting the branches to reveal the clearing, the white walls pristine, the ceilings vaulted, clear sunlight pouring in through slanted skylights, drowning her. The hardwood was smooth against her feet, dark and glistening, and repeated everywhere, in the old furniture that belonged in a much older home, but looked so right against the odd corners and sharp, modern lines. Something about it, about the braided rugs at the foot of the cubed couches and chairs, the fading spines of books packed into chrome piped bookshelves, a classical portrait of an old woman hanging across from a paint-splattered canvas that spoke of more recent times, seemed very wrong and oh so very right, considering the woman that called the place her home. Hanna meandered through the landscape, searching for a glimpse of her, anything other than the small signs she'd left behind – a half empty pot of coffee, still hot, on the countertop, a ring on the cold, white surface, a pair of slippers, old and ratty, caught at the base of the fridge. She hadn't gone far; it was only a matter of tracking her through the countryside, following the snapped twigs and tracks back to her.

Hanna pressed her fingertips to the glass, a thick sheet of ice across her path. There she was, impermanent and majestic, a stag in a fog laden clearing. She might have even been an illusion. Hanna couldn't be sure. She was hesitant to trust Spencer fully, to believe completely in something that had seemed like a dream from the start. Even now, there was something ethereal about her, in the air around her as it rustled through her loose curls, leaves skittering across the ground bourn on the breeze. She leaned against the railing, but looked weightless, effortless, one leg lazily bent at the knee, one arm lethargically laid across the thick railing while the other crossed over her chest, holding her coffee cup on two fingers precariously over the edge, the last few drops losing the battle with gravity and raining to the ground.

Her breath catches in her chest, and for an instant, Hanna is afraid that she's climbed up too high of an altitude with her. Spencer is someone who is circling and soaring, cutting the air with bladed wings, while she is someone who belongs on solid ground, dreaming of the sky, and how the air feels rushing all around her. (And, a passing thought, thistledown caught in the wind of her thoughts, why would someone so effortless, so weightless, ever ground herself for someone like her? The thistles blow away, but the little spiny parts pick and poke at her.) She raises her hand to the warm metal of the door handle, and fighting through her hesitance, the uncertainty that's plagued her since the beginning, no matter how sure she's been, and pushes the door to the side, clearing her path. It gives little resistance, takes much less effort than she planned, making a discordant noise as it hits the other side. It's jarring like a gunshot, and birds squawk as they flap their wings and coast away, but Spencer doesn't move, not at the door, and not at the hesitant steps Hanna takes, the cold floor sparking against the bare bottoms of her feet.

Is she lost in thought? Is she blissfully unaware of her impending intruder as she surveys her lush kingdom from her perch, regal and wild? Or does she know? Does she see everything? Is she setting a trap? The thought makes her take the barest, littlest of steps back, but a warm knot of confidence ties itself and Hanna continues forward, ever the adventurer. It all comes back to her with every second that she breathes and walks, every second spent in transit. The sureness of Spencer's hands on her face, around her wrists, placed on her body with every intention deliberate. The reassuring rising of her chest against her back, even as she lay awake in wonder, the sound of her breathing smothered in the back of her neck. The heaviness of her presence, not a burden, but a comfort. The wilderness could go on around them, every dangerous thing, every vicious cycle, and it wouldn't have mattered. Even now, it didn't matter.

There is no more hesitance in her movements, her hands sliding down the sleek curves of Spencer's hips, coming to rest when her arms entirely encircle her waist, cosmic rings in an endless dark sky. She can feel her smile, the air around them changes and charges with its warmth, but she says nothing. Neither does Hanna. Her words are buried beneath her mouth, growing in the kisses she places at the back of Spencer's neck as she raises herself on tiptoe. The golden morning sunlight is a symphony around them, and goosebumps raise in tidal waves on both of them. The landscape is strange and new to Hanna, an alien planet perhaps, or a civilization long thought buried, but there are no valleys between them, of their own making, or otherwise.

Spencer's hand finds hers, their fingers weaving together at the gentle touch, a torch in the tense jungle, lighting the way.


End file.
